


Touch

by buttheyrebrothers



Series: 5 senses [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Comfort Sex, Episode: s06e12 Like a Virgin, M/M, Sam gets his soul back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean.” falls from his brother’s lips and it sounds like a question his body wants to answer so desperately that it leaves its current place without a thought, reaching for its other half, reaching for “Sam?”</p><p>He doesn’t want to hear the answer (to many lies can leave a mouth). He needs to feel it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

He is sitting on a table, in a house that’s nearly as much a home as the Impala ( _but not as much as Sam_ ), a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. The surface underneath his hand is smooth with use, familiar dents being a home for his fingertips since he sat down hours ago. The ribbed glass in his hands is a patented anchor against the turmoil of feelings in his chest. He brings the tumbler to his lips and relishes the cool relief on his too hot skin. Liquor running smoothly down his throat, a welcome burn to extinguish the flames in his lungs.

He always catalogues the world in impressions, remembers the way things look and taste and feel. This way he doesn’t have to ponder over what he thinks and what he feels, can prolong the time before he is sinking down in an endless hole of grief and doubt and regret. Touching things, memorizing the feeling of them on his skin keeps him here, tethers him to the now. He can’t let himself get lost because he is needed ( _he is always needed_ ). When ( _If_ ) Sammy wakes up he’s gonna rely on Dean to be there for him, to ease him back into a soulful existence.

Bobby is sitting across from him, sporting the same somber expression Dean’s face is probably housing right now. But then his face changes, surprise sharpens the tired lines of a face that has seen too much already. Dean tightens his grip on the firm glass of his whiskey tumbler because it’s the only thing he can grasp and he so desperately needs to _hold onto something_ because when he turns around there is _Sam_. He looks at Dean like he can’t believe his own eyes and Dean knows the feeling, his fingers itch to touch, to proof to himself and the world that his brother is here, alive and whole and Sammy. But more than that he longs for Sam's fingers, hands, skin on him, wants the touch to be gentle, caring, comforting. _Home_. All the things it wasn’t during the months since he came back without a soul. “Dean.” falls from his brother’s lips and it sounds like a question his body wants to answer so desperately that it leaves its current place without a thought, reaching for its other half, reaching for “Sam?”

He doesn’t want to hear the answer ( _to many lies can leave a mouth_ ). He needs to feel it.

When their bodies collide it’s not stars exploding or heaven breaking open or worlds shattering. It’s puzzle pieces finally fitting together to create something whole, it’s finding the perfect position to fall asleep after hours of tossing and turning, it’s a body stitched back together with two hearts beating as one.

Dean feels Sam’s muscles shift underneath his palms, only covered with a single layer of clothing. Soft and worn cotton meets his skin, warmed by the body underneath. Silken hair tickles his nose and caresses his temples lovingly. Puffy breaths tingle on the vulnerable skin behind his ears. Strong arms cling to him like he will vanish any minute and maybe that’s true, he feels like he’s flying out of his skin, everything is too much, an ocean drowning him with impressions and every wave sings one name. _Sam_.

They hug so long eternities are born from dying stars, until their muscles learned the truth ears and eyes couldn’t believe. _You’re here. I can touch you, feel your body and can hold it to mine._

It seems like enough but they both know it isn’t ( _it will never be enough_ ), not until skin reacquainted with skin, all barriers between them removed. It won’t be enough until they become one again.

They don’t even last an hour with Bobby in the kitchen, catching Sam up on nearly nothing because some things better stay in the dark where they can’t reach you. No, they are not real as long as they can’t touch you so you have to bury them deep. Still, he knows Sam wants to ask more, wants to know more, his fingers already grasping for these truths like they were cookies he’s not allowed to have. Dean gives him one pleading look, memories of the hells he lived through (Cold Oak, Downstairs, a cemetery in Kansas, a year without Sam) clear in his eyes. Sam lets the cookies be for now.

A flimsy excuse of needing sleep clears their passage to their upstairs room, both missing the old man’s knowing eyes. _Idjits_.

Metal in his hands not cold enough to stop the simmering of blood in his veins, skin already flushed, droplets of sweat trickling down his spine like tears. The heat intensifies when a warm hand settles on the small of his back and presses his shirt against his moist skin. There is no real pressure, more reassurance than request but he still steps further into the room. His heart is beating fast, nearly matching the speed with which Sam is suddenly standing right in front of him, emotions in eyes that were vacant for far too long. He wants to speak but his tongue refuses to move, giving the reins to his hands and they gladly take over. Every touch is a story, every press of fingers a silent question, every caress a promise. _I got you. It’s me, it’s you, it’s us. Family._

Clothes vanish like a magicians trick, world shifting; lives lied down on a soft bed. Hands dance on well-known stages, planes of muscles the perfect floor. Thumb grazes over a sensitive nipple. _Is this alright?_ Knuckles stroking quivering flanks, up and down in a calming rhythm. _I missed you, too._ Hand wraps around a silky length, just resting, holding, pleading. _I need you in me, show me you still love me._ Lips meet gently, heated tongue caresses waiting flesh. _Everything. I would give you anything, everything you ask of me._ That’s when it flares inside of him for the first time since way too long, a sensation thought lost but found again. _Hope_. Gun oil the only reachable thing, separation of skin unimaginable. Nimble fingers find their way home, slicking up familiar walls, making space for themselves. Nails dig into tense back muscles, seeking hold on slippery skin. _Never leave me again._ Teeth sink into the tendons of an offered neck, stinging pain mixes with spicy pleasure. _I won’t, I promise, I’m yours._ Burning, fire, flames licking up his spine, stretch too much, too fast, too good. Hips move on their own will, chasing pleasure in a game of hide and seek. Fingers retreat too suddenly for the walls to hold them in. A sound ripples from a throat, his throat. He doesn’t care. _Come back_. And then there is pressure, overwhelming, sharp stinging pain flashing through his insides. He feels lips move over his heated skin, peppering his face with butterfly kisses, like wings fluttering over his brows, his temples, his jaw, his nose, his eyelids. _Let me in my love, don’t be afraid._ _I never wanted to hurt you._ His muscles give, making space, welcoming home. That’s the moment he knows, the moment he understands with body and soul, recognizing his other half.

 _Sammy_.


End file.
